


I Don't Hear Voices In My Head

by ieroangel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Frerard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:36:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ieroangel/pseuds/ieroangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Psychologist AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Hear Voices In My Head

“Do you ever hear voices in your head?” Frank Iero muttered aloud to himself.

He ticked the box for ‘no’ and pressed the ‘okay’ button.

“Blah, blah, blah, OCD, borderline, bipolar, anxiety, depression, ugh!”

He slammed the laptop shut.

Frank had been scouring the internet all morning for tests that claimed to tell him if he had certain personality disorders or not. He was trying to diagnose himself before some other fucking psychologist did at eleven o’clock that morning. 

His alarm buzzed. Frank had an alarm set for every hour so that he could section up his days into twenty-four pieces, like a fraction problem. Frank had never been very good at math, but he was very good with patterns and dividing time up. 6 sections were for sleep, 6 were for work, 1 was for eating, 1 was for exercise, etcetera, etcetera. Frank had every little bit divided up into every little bit and if he didn’t do something at the exact time, it would drive him mad.

The alarm buzzing signaled that Frank had to take a shower, and he did so, folding his clothes and stepping into the steaming shower with steam (or smoke, as he thought it was as a kid) so thick that he could barely see his body. Frank preferred it better that way. That way he could focus less on imperfection and more on the feeling of things. 

It was eleven thirty precisely when Frank got out of the shower to dress in his Saturday outfit (he had a specific outfit for each day of the week) and by eleven forty-five, he was driving to The Blaire Psychiatry Center and at eleven o’clock, he stepped into the door. It made a tinkling noise. Frank hated it. 

“Hello,” said a woman behind the front desk with too-long red nails tapping at a computer. “May I help you?”

“I’m here for an appointment,” Frank said, shifting nervously. “Frank, Frank Iero?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re the eleven o’clock? He will be in that hallway-“she pointed “-on the left. You won’t miss him, I promise.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, and he turned to the correct hallway and walked until he saw an open door.

The room was small, and had shelves covering the walls, mostly filled with thick books with long names that Frank could not read from a distance, and in the center sat a desk, with a chair in front of it, meant for Frank, and a man behind it, also meant for Frank, or so he supposed.

“Hello,” Frank said, still standing. “Iero. Frank Iero.”

“Bond. James Bond. Please shut the door,” the man replied with a smile in his thickly accented voice.

“Your name is really…James Bond?”

The man let out an sharp awkward HA! that made Frank jump and shook his head.

“Gerard Way,” he said. “Sit down.”

Frank slid the chair out and sat in it smartly.

“Frank, what’s wrong?”

He did not say ‘what’s wrong with you?’ or ‘what’s wrong with your mind?’ or even ‘what’s wrong with your life?’ in a mean or condescending tone, merely ‘what’s wrong?’ and that was what tripped Frank up.

“Um…” 

He hated pauses. 

“M-me.”

His voice came out shaky and small.

“You’re wrong,” Gerard said in a thoughtful voice. “What would make you right?”

Frank hadn’t thought about this either.

“Nothing.”

“There isn’t a way to fix what you think is wrong with yourself?”

“It’s not a thing!” Frank said, too loudly. “It’s a feeling. Like when a mom wakes up and she knows her baby is crying even though she can’t hear it? I can’t hear the voice in the back of my head telling me that I’m stupid or fat or ugly or normal things like that, I feel it. I feel twitchy or panicky or full of bad emotions that I can’t get out and I can’t fucking fix it!”

“You’re full of emotions,” Gerard said. “Frank, do you draw?”

“No.”

“Do you write?”

“No.”

“Do you make music, do you do anything creative?”

“I don’t have time.”

“There’s always time.”

“No, there’s not.”

“What are you doing in that time.”

“Things I have to do, it’s all organised, like a schedule, you know?”

“Fuck the schedule.”

“I can’t fuck the schedule! I get all fucking nervous and-“

“Fuck the nervousness. Put it into art, Frank, what you need is art.”

“I’ve never heard of art therapy-“

“It’s not therapy, Frank, art is LIFE. Here, take a song, for example. Do you listen to music?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you like?”

“Um…”

There it was, that pause again.

“Punk, I guess?”

“There you go, punk is pure expression! How can you like expression so much when you can’t express yourself?”

“You want me to start a band?”

“No, I want you to start your life!”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll try it.”

“Fuck the schedule?”

“Fuck the schedule!”

His voice rang out, happier than he had been in months.

***

It was exactly four weeks later (Frank still did like time) and the schedule was gone. Worked off bit by bit, he got rid of it entirely, and started guitar as a form of art. Frank was doing fine. Until IT happened.

IT was a Saturday morning and Frank was playing guitar for Gerard for the first time. Gerard had asked him to bring it in and play it for him, and Frank had agreed after an amount of coaxing.

“Hello,” Frank said to the woman at the desk.

He was wearing his Wednesday outfit though it was a Saturday and he was smiling. 

The door was open and Frank closed it as he walked inside. Gerard’s hair was a new colour, bright red, and he nodded at Frank.

Frank sat down and strummed at the guitar. It was in tune already. Then he began to play. First, quietly and slowly, then louder and with more confidence, all signs of tentativeness lost. The song had no words, it was only music, only art, only passion. Frank could do it. He could let the emotions out. He was free, fucking free from the schedule! He had done it!

And then the song was over and Gerard was looking at him with bright eyes and bright hair and parted lips that Frank just wanted to…

Before he knew it he was standing up and leaning over the desk, smiling into the mouth of Gerard, who tasted like cigarettes and cheap chapstick.

Gerard pulled away first, his bright eyes full of darkness and sadness and tears, something that Frank had never seen in Gerard at all, ever.

“Gerard?” he said.

Gerard was staring blankly at absolutely nothing.

Frank was terrified for the first time in almost a month. He turned and fled the room.

***

“Hello,” Frank said, smiling at the front desk woman and going down the hall. Gerard’s door was shut. Frank opened it. There was no desk. No books. No chair. No anything.

“Excuse me?” Frank said, walking back down the hall.

The woman looked up through her glasses.

“Where is Gerard?”

“Who?” said the woman.

“My psychologist, we’ve been meeting for almost five weeks, in that room, right down there, fifth room on the left.”

“What's his name, again??”

“Way, Gerard Way.”

The woman suddenly got a cold look on her face.

“F-fifth room on the left, you said?”

“Yes!”

Frank was becoming impatient now, pacing back and forth.

“Mister Iero, Gerard Way used to work here…”

“Used to? Until when, like yesterday?”

“N-no…” 

She looked genuinely terrified.

“Until he committed suicide…in his office…fifth room on the left…”


End file.
